A Family Apart
by A. O. Talmidge
Summary: Rob has run away from a place that he once called home; somewhere that had been safe. However, there is a reason for it happening . . .
1. Away

_Author's Note: Yes, I know that Rob's parents are very much out of character currently. However, there is a reason. How they are currently portrayed is definitely not how I think they would usually act._

* * *

**Chapter One**

"Manhattan Station Number Two, now boarding. If this is your stop, please board in a safe and orderly fashion. Repeat: Manhattan Station Number Two, now boarding."

Rob quickly grabbed his skateboard from the right of his chair, then got up from his seat in the subway terminal. He was wearing his backpack- his only other luggage. Perhaps it would have been better to even leave the skateboard behind, as it even slightly identified him, but he really had not relished the idea too much.

He quickly went through the open doorway of the train behind a small girl holding a rattling cat, with her other hand holding the hand of a teenage girl. Rob sat down nearby a tall man intently reading a newspaper. The two girls, possibly sisters, sat on his other side, chatting merrily.

He tried to ignore a small pang that went through him. Hopefully his older brother Jason would heed his warning to stay away from home . . .

He wondered if he should even write to Jason, who was currently attending a deaf school in Washington D.C. Then again, he wondered if he could just plain _not._ He would, of course, need to get some stamps from somewhere . . . But the stamps- and the post markings- would even slightly reveal where he would be.

That might even be unnecessary to worry about, though. With the right clues, Ghostwriter, the ghost that only he and his friends from Brooklyn could see, could find out where he was pretty easily. The matter was if his friends called someone official or got that type of person involved to practically drag him back to his house . . .

No doubt his friends would be mad if he had told him about leaving. Then again, he had also not told them, or anyone for that matter, the reason in the first place.

Rob sighed. Balancing his skateboard between his knees, he shrugged off his full backpack. After sifting through a couple of days' worth of clothes, he took out one of several books that he had brought. He wondered how far his money- he had taken all that he had saved up- would last. He planned on traveling as far as he could with enough for food for at least a couple of days, even if he had not used up the food he had already packed.

Rob quickly checked his watch. Eight thirty-two. It was still pretty early in the day, and he wanted to travel for quite some time yet. Somewhere that was far enough that local televisions would not be picturing a missing kid that looked suspiciously like him would be far enough- and probably a lot farther. Somewhere distant enough that someone could not easily drive to force him back to Brooklyn . . .

He began reading his book. Six hours later, he changed trains to one that would get him further in Connecticut. Rob sighed in relief as he looked at the signs above him on the train. At least his friends had not discovered he was missing yet.

Yet another train and more hours later, he had gotten off of the train and rode a small bus to a public library, in a smallish town called Hilden. Rob looked around him, hoping that he did not look too conspicuous with his skateboard and stuffed backpack.

He went in the library, where he was greeted by a friendly older female librarian at the front desk.

Rob took a deep breath. "Could I get a new library card?" he asked her.

The librarian- Marianne Shelter, it said on her nametag- smiled. "Sure," she replied in a friendly manner. "Have you had one here before?"

Rob shook his head. "No, ma'am."

The librarian nodded, smiled again, and reached beneath the tall counter behind some fake flowers coming out of stones in a clay pot. She pulled out a brand-new card, one that minors were able to use.

"Here you go," she stated. "Just sign your name on the line, and you're good to go." She pointed to the flowers. "The pens are right there."

Rob nodded, a bit confused. He hesitantly pulled a blue flower out from the grey stones. Surprisingly, the bottom of the green-stemmed "flower" was the tip of a pen. He had never seen that type of thing before.

His hand shook a little as he signed not his name, but one that he had invented. He then tried to put the pen back where it went. Surprisingly, it was pretty easy to slide the pen in the stones again.

"You're good to go," the librarian said, smiling again. "Are you staying to check out a few books?"

He shook his head. "No, I want to look at some things," he stated. "I really do want to get some books at some point, though."

"Do you need some help with what you're looking for?"

Rob shook his head again. "No, I'm fine."

"All right, then. See you later."

Rob thanked the nice elderly woman before leaving the front desk. He stopped near a small cushioned chair near a table and put down his skateboard before swinging off his pack. Rob flipped his new library card around to the back side, then to the front again. In neat cursive was his new alias- Richie Branson. The only thing in common between his birth name and his new one was the initials. Hopefully no one would ever notice.

He quickly stuffed the library card into a front pocket of his pack before putting it on. Grabbing his skateboard, he went to the local atlases and poured through them.

Two hours later, he stood in front of his destination. Rob looked upward at the plaque letters above him.

Korry Foster Home for Boys.

Actually, he had not gotten there by himself. He had been inadvertently gotten caught in the middle of a small gang paint ball war (though he had been thankfully spared getting hit), apparently illegal in the area. The policeman there had questioned him. After several unsatisfactory answers, including not telling his either his address or phone number, he had eventually ended up here.

The social worker standing next to him cleared his throat. "We haven't got all day," he stated in a bored tone. "One would think that you really didn't want to be here, after all." There was more than a bit of sarcasm in his voice as he rang the doorbell.

About half a minute later, the door opened to reveal a tall, somewhat burly man with balding grey-red hair. He raised an eyebrow at Rob. "So this is our newest addition?"

The social worker rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately. You would think that kids would have the sense to stay home."

The older man shrugged and beckoned them to follow him. They did so, going into a small room near the entry way. Rob sat down on a plastic chair by the wall near the social worker. The other man took a seat in front of them on a large rocker and placed his hands on his lap.

"It's surprising how many unfortunate circumstances arise from unhealthy situations in the home," he said, looking at the social worker.

The former frowned. "Well, that's hard to judge with _his_ situation since he won't speak up about it in the first place, Mr. Willowby."

The older man merely leaned forward. "Surely you know better than most that many scars cannot be seen, even if they seem to be in plain sight."

"I hope you're not here to give a lecture, Mr. Willowby," the social worker complained. "I did what I was asked to. The boy's here-"

"His name is Richie, as I was told."

The social worker rolled his eyes. "His name is _supposedly_ Richie," he said. "Half the time these kids don't even give their real names, thinking that they can hide under some fake identity until they're found out and then get themselves into more trouble because of that."

Rob sat sullenly while the grown-ups continued to talk about him- or rather, the older man talk and the social worker argue.

Finally, they stood up and shook hands, the social worker looking rather hostile as he did so.

"I hope you have a good night, Mr. Derwin," the older man said pleasantly. The addressee merely shrugged and did not comment. "I'll just show you to the door-"

"I can show myself to the door, thanks," the social worker commented sourly. He rolled his eyes again and spoke his next words in low but audible mutter. "I've only been here a million times."

Mr. Derwin left the room. Less than ten seconds later, Rob heard the somewhat distant sound of the front door slamming shut.

Mr. Willowby closed the door that the social worker had left open. He then went back and sat down in the large rocking chair.

"Well," he said, "unfortunately, some people get a little tired of their jobs after a while. Then again, perhaps it would be better if some people had gotten other jobs in the first place. But alas, so it goes."

He turned to Rob again. "All right then, Richie," he said.

Rob stared at one of the other chairs in the room, refusing to give any sort of reaction to his supposed name, even if this man seemed a whole lot nicer than the social worker. He knew, better than his friends, that people who acted polite to others were not necessarily that way all of the time.

The man continued to speak. "First of all, have you had a decent supper today, a drink included?"

Rob blinked. Of all the things that he had been expected to be asked first from the director of the foster home – or whoever he was; he was not wearing a nametag- it was definitely not about food.

"Uh, yes, sir," he said.

He had, eating two of the various sandwiches that he had packed in a park, about a couple of minutes before he had seen the first paint ball, splattering against a picnic table nearby. He had had plenty of water from his water bottle that he had refilled at the library beforehand.

Mr. Willowby nodded. "Good, I trust that you are telling the truth about that."

He studied Rob for a moment. "I wish that our doctors would be able to come later than eight o'clock, but unfortunately, they're on pretty tight schedules as it is," he said. "An examination will be order tomorrow- not shots, unless obviously needed, like a booster shot," he quickly added, obviously seeing Rob's small flinch. "They actually do most of the doctoral things here, no actual doctor offices or hospitals needed, unless necessary, of course. And then there's some more forms to fill out.

"But," he continued, "I won't bore you any longer with the details. Time for some shut-eye for the residents here soon, I would think. Do you have any pairs of pajamas with you?"

Rob sighed a bit. "No, sir," he said.

Mr. Willowby did not look offended at all. "That's quite all right," he replied. "We have plenty of spares. If you would follow me, please . . ."

About thirty minutes later, Rob was laying on a small bed in one of the dorm rooms, wearing a pair of borrowed blue pajamas. Thankfully, only one other boy was with him in the room. His roommate was apparently a pretty heavy sleeper. Rob had accidently tripped over something on the floor and dropped his skateboard with a loud thump, but the boy had stayed sound asleep.

He sighed. He had been lucky to keep his skateboard in the first place. The policeman from earlier had seemed to believe that he had stolen it. Thankfully, he had already carefully penciled his initials in all of the books that he had brought with him, as well as on the front of the empty notebooks. They were the same ones that were marked in black ink on the bottom of his skateboard, near the back right wheel. It was a good thing that the policeman seemed to think that that, along with his new library card, was enough proof it belonged to him.

The board was now resting near his backpack by the bed. He sure hoped that bugs, rats or anything similar would not go after the food still stashed away inside. Maybe he could even ask Mr. Willowby to allow him to put the few sandwiches left in a refrigerator tomorrow.

Rob sat up and reached into his backpack, less full now since he had put his extra clothing in one of the dresser drawers nearby, and pulled out a book.

He had been surprised by a reading light right above both of the beds when he had first come into the room. Hesitantly, looking at the sleeping occupant he shared a room with, he switched the one by his bed on. Rob flinched as the light instantly illuminated part of the room, but yet again, the other boy did not stir.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he opened the book and began to read.

He was about a fourth of the way into the book when some letters flew from the pages to form a question.

_Rob, where are you?  
__–Jamal_

Rob looked at the inquiry, trying to fight down his panic. Of course his parents (he sometimes wanted to think of them as his "parents" lately) would have noticed that he was gone by now, and would have asked his friends. There was no way that he could tell the truth, though. Surely utterly no one, even if they believed him, could actually do anything about it.

He got out a small notebook, as well as the pen attached to a cord that his friends had given his several months ago from his backpack. Uncapping the pen, he wrote a short answer.

_Just somewhere._

Rob saw Ghostwriter circle what he wrote. Instead of leaving right afterward to deliver the message to Jamal, the ghost hovered by the notebook.

Rob flinched slightly. Ghostwriter was the only one who maybe even had an inkling of what had occurred within the past couple months. Unlike his human friends, he could sense the team's emotions, as well as _pain_ . . .

The ghost then flew toward the small window and went straight through it. Rob waited anxiously, until the familiar colored sparks appeared in the small room with another message from Jamal.

_What do you mean, "just somewhere?" It's late. Your parents are really worried._

Rob frowned as he penned a response. _Yeah, right._

Obviously, his dark-skinned friend was confused. _What do you mean by that? Look, if you had an argument with them or something, maybe it would be best to go back to your house now and try to talk to them tomorrow. You could even write to them, like you did with your dad about you liking writing better than sports. _

Rob scowled a bit, trying to ignore pangs of anguish running through him. He had actually tried that last month, but things had still stayed the same. If anything, his parents, his mother included, had gotten angrier.

_I'm not going back,_ he scrawled. He was feeling quite dejected as he wrote that. Not going back meant not seeing his friends . . . whose parents were still the ones that they loved. Not a seemingly random, gradual change to practically other people entirely . . .

_Why?_

Rob could see Jamal's baffled face as he read that. He sighed. He was where he was, and no way he could turn back.

_I'm just not,_ he responded.

Surely Ghostwriter was rather sad with this conversation. Perhaps the ghost would even talk to him afterward.

He was soon sent another message from his friend. _Seriously, you ran away?_

Rob almost rolled his eyes at the obvious answer, but instead sighed yet again. Friendly as Jamal was, he just _did not know_ . . .

_Yeah._

He could practically see Jamal's concerned face looking at him as he read his response.

_Running away won't solve a problem. You can't just stay outside somewhere by yourself all night._

Rob looked at the still sleeping form of his roommate. _I'm not by myself, and I'm fine. _

_ Who are you with?_

He shrugged. _Not sure. Somebody. I don't think they're dangerous, or I wouldn't even be with them in the first place._

_ Look, it's better for you to come home, Rob. You can't solve anything by staying wherever you are. Maybe the team can help._

_I'm fine._

He could practically feel Jamal's confusion, as well as a bit of frustration in his friend's next reply. _If you were, you wouldn't be somewhere other than your house at ten-thirty at night._

Rob looked at his watch. He had actually not realized that it was that late. Maybe it was due to just mostly riding on mostly subway trains all day long, but he was actually not that tired. Physically, anyway . . .

Ghostwriter sent another message from Jamal. _Please, just come back. You could even come to my house first, if you want. _

_ I'm not going back._

It was a few more minutes before Ghostwriter came back with a response. _Korry Foster Home For Boys? Seriously?_

Rob stared at the message. Obviously, Jamal had asked Ghostwriter where he was instead. He had known that the ghost could do that, and had actually been hoping that he would. He was still in the situation that he was, though. There was no way that his friends could change that . . . right?

_You sure you're safe?_

Rob nodded as he looked around the still room around him, and thought of the surprisingly friendly Mr. Willowby. It was much more than he had even dared to hope for.

_Yeah_.

_Okay. Could the team meet you somewhere tomorrow, so that we can talk?_

Rob blinked, though he had half-expected the calm answer from his level-headed friend. Hopefully Jamal would not become too angry with his next answer.

_It's too far for that. _Plus, he did not have enough money to even go back to Brooklyn.

Jamal would not give up, though. _Can you use a phone, then? If you can, how about calling my house tomorrow, or even right now?_

Rob sighed, feeling both frustrated and stricken with panic at the same time. Here he was, nearly back to original problem . . .

_I don't think that would help with anything._

He anxiously stared at the notebook, his hand clutched around his pen. Gaby and Alex would no doubtedly shout at him, saying that he was wrong; Lenni would insist that the team could do anything; Tina would say that maybe there was a way to solve the problem.

Jamal was no different. _We can at least try._

Rob stared at the words, his vision blurring a bit. He hastily wiped his eyes.

_I don't know._

_ Look, I don't even know what the problem is. We could even get Lieutenant McQuade to help._

His hand was shaking as he wrote his next answer. _I don't want to tell._

_Why?_

Rob gritted his teeth, trying to desperately hold back stupid tears. Why was he almost crying?

_I just don't._

It was a stubborn answer; his refusal to tell anyone anything during the past two awful months was perhaps his thinking that things would be better . . . And they had not. Plus, his parents were just plainly way too good at acting when other people were around, including his friends.

Another message came. _But how can anyone help if you don't say what's wrong?_

Rob glanced at his long sleeves, which were hiding multiple bruises. He had many others in a whole bunch of different places, including a one on his face from last night.

_I just don't want to tell._

No one would _really_ believe that his father, a retired colonel of the air force that was stern, yet shown to be kind at times, nor his gentle mother, would ever do something like hurt their youngest son, would they?

_Rob, please. _

He winced. _I'm not telling. I just CAN'T!_

Rob felt a dumb tear stray onto his face. He hastily wiped it away, flinching a bit as he touched the bruise on his cheek.

_Are you going to get hurt, or someone else, if you tell what's going on?_

Rob huffed. _I'm FINE!_

He really did not like making Ghostwriter send angry messages to his friend, though. He should probably tone down his angered responses, a least a little.

_Look, _he wrote, _really, I'm fine._

It was a few minutes before another message appeared. _Okay, Rob. I believe in you. But I still think you should talk to someone._

_ Maybe._

_That's better than not at all._

_ I guess._

Surprisingly, Rob almost felt like grinning some. It was crazy; he had not felt like smiling all day long. Yet his friends still would not give up on him . . .

_Thanks._

_ You're welcome,_ Jamal replied._ Remember that the team's always here for you, Rob._

Rob nodded, suddenly feeling anguished again. It still seemed that the team could not actually help with this, though.

Another message came from Jamal. _I'll talk to you tomorrow, then?_

Rob nodded again. _Yeah,_ he wrote.

_ Good night._

_ You too._

He sighed as he put down his pen, suddenly feeling exhausted. Rob looked around the still room. The other boy was still sound asleep. Hopefully he would not turn out to be someone that was practically a gangster, or anything like that. However, would Mr. Willowby have even placed him with someone like that? Maybe his roommate was even from a situation like his.

Rob quickly replaced the cap on his pen, and put it, the small notebook and his book that he had been reading in his backpack. He then switched off the reading light and lay down. Hopefully he would not be sent back to his house tomorrow.


	2. Still Friends

**Chapter Two  
Still Friends**

Rob woke to a loud pounding on the door. He cringed and quickly sat up, feeling quite sure that his father would be coming, absolutely furious at him for something again.

He then blinked in confusion at the small unfamiliar room around him, with its plain white walls and unfamiliar furniture. Swiftly, he recalled the events from the past day. He was still in the foster home that he had gone into the night before.

Rob sighed a tiny bit in relief. At least he was away from his house.

A little bit later, the door was pounded on again. "This is your final wake-up call!" some male grown-up shouted. "Anyone who is not downstairs in the mess hall within thirty minutes misses breakfast, and that's final!"

Rob wondered who the person was, then decided that it did not matter. He turned his head toward the other dresser in the room, where his roommate was awake and currently yanking a comb through his tan hair.

The boy turned around and narrowed his eyes. "I've only got one thing to say to you," he spat, scowling. "You stay outta my way, and I stay outta yours. Got it?"

Rob nodded slowly, a bit uncomfortable at the boy's upfront attitude. "Yeah."

The pale brunette frowned. "And I mean don't talk to me, either!"

He slammed the comb down on his dresser and marched out of the room, banging the door shut. Rob stared at it for a bit. He supposed that at least it seemed that his roommate was not one that would forever be insulting him or asking him why he was here.

Rob then quickly dressed and left the room. He followed some chattering boys down the hallway and down some stairs, eventually ending up in a large room with people from what looked like elementary grades to even high school sitting on mismatched chairs, in front of long tables. It was sort of like a school cafeteria, except not quite as large.

The other boys went into what looked somewhat like a lunch line; Rob followed them and came out with grapes, biscuits and gravy, and sausages on a tray, as well as a small carton of orange juice. He went toward a partially empty table near the back of the room and sat down.

He had just finished the rest of his juice when he saw someone sit in the empty seat next to him.

"Hey, new kid!" the kid spoke to him.

Rob ignored the familiar phrase and continued eating his second biscuit.

"Yo! You deaf?" the low voice went on mockingly.

Rob frowned a tiny bit; it was no different than many of the new schools that he had gone to, ones on military bases included. Hopefully the rude boy would give up.

"Sheesh! Can't you just give a friendly 'hi' or something?" the boy demanded.

Rob then jolted as strong hands gave him a hardy shove. He winced more at the touch more than the short fall to the floor; he had almost felt his "father" again . . .

"What's going on here?" an angered voice demanded from nearby.

Rob looked up to see a tall, thin grown-up with a nasty scowl on his face. "Nothing, sir," he muttered, climbing back to his seat, feeling rather embarrassed.

Thankfully, the grown-up just turned around to the tall boy that had shoved him.

"Jerkins!" he shouted, while the boy merely raised an eyebrow. "Another demerit for you! That means no court, no television, no _nothing_ tonight! Straight to your dorm, and no questions asked!"

The boy just shrugged and sat down in the middle of the table, clearly not bothered by the punishment.

Meanwhile, the grown-up had turned to Rob. "Branson, isn't it?" he asked. Rob nodded mutely. The person continued. "If I catch you in a middle of another spout of any sort like that again, you're also starting your own demerit record. Is that clear?"

Rob nodded again, a bit apprehensive. "Yes, sir," he responded.

The grown-up raised an eyebrow. "Well, at least we got a polite one this time, huh?" Without further ado, he marched to stand watch from a wall with a couple of other men.

"Jeepers, Jerky!" someone said loudly from somewhat nearby. "You don't know when to quit, do you?

Rob turned to see the tall boy scowling at some other person with bright red hair. "If you call me that again, you're gonna get another knock on the head," he warned. "And _hard_."

The red-head grinned mischievously. "But is it _really_ worth another demerit?" he asked brazenly. "If I were you, you'd better stop before you're slam-dunked into another center. I heard they only get worse the more you get moved around them. Isn't that right?"

The taller boy must have given the red-head a hard pinch, for he suddenly uttered a small yelp and jerked his right arm away. Scowling, he grabbed his empty tray and strode from the table.

Some loud laughter followed his departure. The boy next to him spoke up.

"Hey, Jerkins," he said, chuckling. "I guess you've got yourself another rematch. So, how're you going get away with it this time?"

Jerkins rolled his eyes. "That's really easy, and I'm not telling why," he stated. "It's only old Fire-Head that's the real problem, and I got that under control. Once he's in his office," he added, smiling slyly.

Another boy with black hair raised an eyebrow. "Wow, way to bypass security- go right under their noses. You going to ransack some room near it again?"

Someone else snickered. "More like make some pleasant talk with him. You know he's a sucker for that sort of thing, nice as he is."

"Hey, leave him out of it, why don't you?" another other boy spoke up. "He's the only actual grown-up around here, anyway."

"Who asked _you?_" Jerkins spat, glaring at the speaker.

The boy only shrugged and stashed a forkful of gravy-covered biscuit in his mouth. Rob sighed; why in the world did he _have_ to be housed in the same building with a boy that was an obvious trouble maker?

He then winced. It was definitely better here than at "home."

Rob quickly finished his breakfast, then went to an open window in the wall where he had seen others take their trays. Several trays were messily stacked there; he swiftly set his tray down next to them and tried to rearrange them so it seemed that they would not topple over. Inside the room beyond the window, he could see a small run-through dishwasher going, with a male worker busily rinsing dishes with a sprayer attached to a long cord. Another worker was putting a steaming full tray rack onto a large table.

The former worker finished spraying and shoved the rack into the dishwasher before turning around to grab another stack of trays from the window. His eyes widened as he spotted Rob.

"Oy, you!" he shouted angrily. "Don't touch them, already. I don't need any more messes than I've already got!"

Rob tried to explain. "I was just trying to get them so they wouldn't fall-"

The worker was not appeased. "I don't need yours or any other kid's help with it," he growled, snatching the whole stack away from the window. Several trays fell off the top of the pile and clattered onto the silver metal counter. He then grabbed Rob's tray next.

"Shoo!" he snapped, waving the tray.

Rob backed up and turned around, nearly bumping into someone behind him. Muttering an apology to a small blonde boy that only snickered in reply, he hastily went up the stairs toward his dorm room again. Rob tried not to groan as he passed some bickering boys in the hallway. What sort of place was he in, that so many people seemed to be in a perpetual foul mood?

He then remembered Mr. Willowby that he had met yesterday, as well as the kid from the cafeteria that had stood up for the friendly older man. Apparently not everyone here was the same.

He wondered at not being given a key as he turned the knob to his dorm room and stepped inside. Thankfully, his bad-tempered roommate- though admittedly a whole lot better than the trouble maker boy from breakfast- was currently somewhere else.

Rob quietly closed the door, and went to his bed. On it, there was a note. He curiously picked it up.

_Branson- You're due for a check-up at ten am on the dot, room 203. If you don't know where that is, ask the person in the room just right of the dining hall. __There's always something stationed in there. __Things will go on from there. __Someone will come to remind you a bit later on, including bringing you a lock for your locker._

Rob shrugged and put down the note. At least it was not anything serious, he supposed.

He looked around the small room. Near his bed was a row of small blue metal lockers. Maybe there had even been more than two people in here at one point. The one on the far left apparently was the one that had been claimed by his roommate, as a lock was dangling from it.

On the opposite wall, covered with a plastic sheet, was list of general rules for the home. Perhaps at least one occupant of the room had thought them rather idiotic (or maybe they had been bored) as the sheet was partially covered with pen and marker scribbles.

The rules themselves were still visible enough to read, though. Apparently everything that went against them, from being late to appointments, to surprisingly dirty fingernails (who would really care about that?) resulted in a varying amount of demerits. The more demerits acquired, the more privileges were taken away. Three hundred meant an expulsion away from the home.

Rob winced. He wondered how many hapless kids had been forced away due to accidently being in any sort of brawl, such as he had been with the rude boy from the cafeteria.

Rob checked his watch, seeing that it was seven-oh-two. There was a roaring sound of a lawn mower outside the window. Ignoring it like he always did with the city sounds in Brooklyn, he went to his backpack and pulled out the book he had been reading last night. He sure hoped that he would be able to stay here and not be forced to go somewhere else, unprecedented brawls or otherwise.

* * *

"And so that concludes the more finite rules for this center," a grown-up finished.

Rob nodded at the bored-looking man- Mr. Jack according to his nametag- sitting on a chair in yet another small room. The man picked up yet another clipboard, and scanned something. He then put it down and spoke up again.

"Well, it looks like you're all set to go for school next week," he said.

Rob frowned. "School?" he repeated.

Mr. Jack nodded. "Yes, _school_," he stated, over emphasizing the last word. "Unlike some other centers, we don't offer any educational services within our walls; we're much too small for that. Also, unfortunately, the policy of this center states that new residents must stay here at least a full week before attendance, to get used to being in another place, yada yada yada . . . And you will be tested after a few days for where you are grade-wise. It would certainly not be wise to assume that someone is on the grade level of others the same age- or the age they give, anyway.

He sat up straighter and continued to drone on. "So, your medical check-up states that you seem healthy enough, though to keep you from any roommates that have a known fighting record. That was already taken care of by dear Mr. Willowby in the first place, just after you came here yesterday, and so that's thankfully already settled."

Rob could not help but flinch a little at the "fighting record" part. The doctor that had examined him had been a bit surprised at all of the bruises, new and old, that he had found, but did not question him more than once where they had come from. At least he now knew that his roommate was not– at least publically, anyway- known to be violent.

Mr. Jack sighed. "Well, then, Mr. Branson," he said. "You're free to go now. There are several recreational areas within the building, including a television and a game room- no electronics; they break too easily in places like these- as well as a small basketball court three doors down from the cafeteria. There are also more games and also a small library right across the hall from this room, if you would prefer something closer."

Rob nodded. "Thank you, sir."

The grown-up scuffed. "Polite, huh?" he asked. "That's a plus, I suppose."

Rob frowned a bit. The man that had practically shouted at him at breakfast had also been surprised at his manners. Apparently it was sort of a rare thing here, and not really expected.

He had stood up from his chair, when the man spoke up again.

"I should also remind you that lunch will be served at twelve-thirty for the residents here in the mess hall and no later," he said in his slightly monotonous voice. "Also, all of the exits are secure and no one will be allowed to leave without explicit permission."

Rob nodded again. "Yes, sir," he said.

He left the small room and went across the hall. He wondered if there was any sort of computer lab in the center, though he supposed that it would be not surprising to find out that there was not. Hopefully he would be able to type on a computer at least during the lunch time at which ever school that he would be going to. He had purposely brought several floppy disks with him.

All of his things in his backpack had been checked, and also surprisingly, his skateboard. Fortunately, he had been allowed to keep all of them, the disks included. No one had even checked what was on the disks. He had been careful to remove his name from all of his writings on the disks he had brought before leaving Brooklyn, though.

Rob reached the door to the recreation room and opened it. Inside was a small room with several shelves full of various games and game pieces, a small pile of magazines on an end table, as well as more shelves of books along two other walls.

There were not very many people in the room. A few young kids were playing a board game on the floor near a table, while an older boy was lying on a couch on the other side of the room, reading what looked like a science magazine that he held above his head. Yet another bored-looking man was stationed at a desk near the doorway. He looked up as Rob went into the room, then went right back to reading a thick book.

Rob went toward the bookshelves, interested. At least most of them seemed to be in good condition. Only a few had any sort of peeling covers at all. It was almost like the shelves from a public library, in a way, if not for the lesser amount of shelves and the somewhat odd-looking collection, with most of the hardcovers bare of any jackets.

He scanned the titles, noting that they were not in any sort of particular order. Adventure novels were mixed with non-fiction books from all across the Dewey Decimal system.

Picking out a science fiction book that seemed interesting, he went to an empty table and began to read.

* * *

Rob was reading one of his own books in his dorm room again, when some letters floated above the pages.

_Rob, are you free to talk now?  
__-Jamal_

He flinched in slight panic as he checked his watch. Four twenty-seven. It would definitely be after school in Brooklyn, just like he had assumed it was for here earlier when he had suddenly heard many pairs of footsteps and slamming doors nearby.

Sighing a bit, he put down the book on the bed, and went toward his locker. He twirled the dial on the lock he had received earlier. After pulling out his backpack, he closed the metal door, reattached the lock and put the pack on his bed. He then pulled out the same small notebook that he had used yesterday when writing to Jamal.

Rob glanced at his roommate before sitting down near his bag. One of the grown-ups that he had seen earlier had told him that the boy's name was Dustin Kiona. Rob wondered if that was his actual name, or if he was using an alias, like he was.

The tan-haired boy was keeping his resolution of staying out of Rob's way; he had not spoken another word and just plainly ignored him as he lay on his bed, playing a small portable water game that he kept on tilting different directions.

Rob opened his notebook. After uncapping his pen, he wrote an answer to the question still hanging in mid-air.

_Yes_, he responded.

The floating message quickly faded, after which Ghostwriter appeared and circled his answer, then flew through the window. Less than half a minute later, the ghost reappeared, creating another message from Jamal.

_Good. The whole team's here at my place. __We're here for you._

Rob winced a bit. No doubt the team would want to know _why_ he had run away. There was no way that he could tell them. Jamal would have already informed them about their conversation last night, and they would definitely try to get him to give at least give another clue. Maybe he should have been more careful and not even mentioned anything about any sort of antagonism toward his parents in the first place. It was a "bit" too late for that, though.

He sighed. _Thanks_, he wrote.

He _was_ really grateful that his friends still wanted anything to do with him, including Ghostwriter. It would have been ten times worse without all of them. He then winced again. There was also Jason, his first friend, all the way in Washington D.C. and quite possibly clueless that he was not at home . . .

Rob waited a few minutes after Ghostwriter had disappeared through the window again. Perhaps the team was debating what to write to him, with Jamal even trying to calm Gaby or someone else down.

Thankfully, another answer soon came, again from Jamal.

_What can we do to help with the problem between you and your parents?_

Rob noted with surprise that the ghost had even copied the dark-skinned boy's handwriting this time. He had not known that Ghostwriter could do that.

He then sighed again, feeling rather depressed. What could the team do to stop his parents from being . . . well, the way they were now?

_Nothing_, he responded.

Rob frowned at the answer even after he wrote it. Surely the team would argue about that.

Sure enough, another message soon came, this time from Alex. Maybe he had even grabbed the pen from his impulsive younger sister Gaby. Then he thought that that was perhaps a silly idea, since the whole Ghostwriter team all had their own pens in the first place.

_Oh, come on. You know us better than that,_ the Latino boy complained.

Ghostwriter rearranged some more letters in his notebook, this time shifting to Gaby's handwriting.

_We can't help you if you don't tell us! WHY DID YOU RUN AWAY?_

Rob had to curb his angered emotions again. The irritation then quickly faded to despondence. These were his friends, including Ghostwriter . . .

_Sorry, I can't tell._

_Why? _

Rob frowned, even as more unbidden tears sprung into his eyes. He hastily wiped them away before responded.

_It won't help._

_We can try,_ Jamal responded. _Please, Rob. Come on. __We're your friends._

The next message came from Lenni. _We can talk to your parents and see what they know about any problem. Maybe they want to make up with you now._

Rob flinched as he read that. There was no way that would work . . . and if he went back, things would be exactly the same as they were before.

_Please_, Tina wrote. _We want to help._

_I don't want to tell_, he wrote.

Another message soon came, this time from Alex. _Did your dad take away your skateboard?_

Rob rolled his eyes at the rather stupid question. Ought not the Latino boy know that it would take more than his just his skateboard to cause him to run away?

_No, I have it,_ he scrawled.

Lenni wrote another message. _How are you doing in the foster home? Are you actually inside it?_

Rob nodded, even though he knew that his friends could not see him. _Yeah, I'm in it and I'm fine._

He glanced over to his roommate, still thankfully engrossed with his water game, before turning back to the notebook.

Another question soon came from Tina. _Is the problem actually with your parents, or maybe someone they know, or someone else?_

Rob flinched as he responded. _I don't want to say._

He knew that they team- several of them, at least anyway- would be really frustrated at that answer. Maybe Tina and Jamal would be at least somewhat calm; he was not sure about Lenni.

Gaby asked another question. _Don't you trust us?_

Rob winced. _It's not that._

_Then WHAT IS IT?_

Jamal wrote next. _Look, we're a team. We can work this out together._

Rob sighed. There was no way that the team could help put with this one, right?

_I don't want to tell._

He then blanched some. What if the team somehow_did_ figure out the problem? What would they try, and also, would it get _them_ into some sort of trouble?

_Why?_ Alex responded.

_I just don't._

It was a few minutes later before another message came. _Are you going by a different name in the foster home?_ Jamal asked.

Rob flinched. Maybe his friends had asked Ghostwriter to look for his records at the center. Though feeling a little guilty at the deception, he was glad that he was currently using an alias.

_I'm not saying,_ he wrote.

_Obviously you are, if you're saying that, _Alex responded.

Rob winced at his mistake. Perhaps if he had not given that hint, his friends might have thought that his records had not been created yet due to him being new.

Lenni was the next to write. _Please, Rob, we want to help._

_I'm fine where I am._

Rob sighed again, rereading what he had written. It was true, right? His parents were not in the center, and therefore, things were a whole lot better than when he was at his house, random bad-tempered people included.

Obviously, the team did not agree. _But that's not here,_ Gaby pointed out. _We can help you more if you're here. And we want you here. __We want you to be with us!_

Rob sighed again. Here the team was, wanting to help . . . but he really just was too . . . scared to give any decent answer.

_I'm sorry,_ he wrote, wiping his stupid wet eyes again.

_For what?_ Tina asked.

_Just sorry_, he replied.

Gaby seemed hopeful. _Are you sorry for leaving? Are you coming back?_

_No._

_Please, please, __please__!_ _We want you to come back!_ That was Gaby again.

_Sorry_, Rob wrote again. He really was. He just did not want to be back with him parents, and there was utterly no way that he could hide out in any his friends' homes for long term without being discovered.

Another question came from Alex a few minutes later. _Were you riding on buses all day to get wherever you are?_

_Or trains?_ Gaby asked.

_That was yesterday when you did that, right?_ Tina asked. _Since the others that go to Hurston said you weren't at school?_

Rob sighed slightly in relief. At least his friends had not discovered where the foster home was yet. Maybe they had even tried to look up the foster home, but could not find it in any local phone book or atlas. Maybe it was not large or well-known enough for any sort of thing they had attempted to look in.

_Yes,_ he responded.

_So which was it?_ Gaby asked impatiently. _Buses or trains?_

_Both_, Rob replied. He had ridden on a bus to the train station, then after a long time on different trains, a bus to the library where he had gotten his library card.

_Did you have a lot of money saved up?_ Gaby asked.

_Yes._

Obviously, Alex thought him extremely stupid. _You used it all for that!?_

Rob frowned. Maybe it _was_ rash, but he, well, was not at "home" now, at least.

_Can you call on a phone sometime?_ Lenni asked.

Rob nearly rolled his eyes. _Why?_ he scrawled.

He then gasped. Were they really trying to get someone- like Jamal's father, or even someone like Lieutenant McQuade, who had the ability to trace the source of the phone call- to talk to him on the phone?

He was probably being paranoid, though. There was no way that his friends would do that so of thing to him, right? He supposed that he was correct as he read Gaby's next response.

_We want to hear you_, the Latino girl wrote.

_Do you have to pay to call?_ Tina asked.

Rob wrote an answer. _I'm allowed one local phone call per day and one non-local call per week, and no, I don't have to pay for either. Also, there is always a security guard near the phone when someone uses it. __They listen to what's being said._

He could practically see Alex frowning as he read the Latino boy's message. _They must really not trust anyone in that foster home,_ he wrote.

Rob shrugged. _I guess._

A few minutes later, Jamal sent another note. _Rob, we've got to go for now. We'll keep in touch, right?_

Rob nodded, a bit sad, but also somewhat relieved (sort of) that he would not be interrogated anymore by his friends right now.

_Yeah,_ he replied.

_Write if you need anything, even if you want to make a phone call,_ Lenni wrote back.

_We __really __want to help you,_ Gaby stated.

Tina wrote next. _We're still a team._

Rob nodded again, saddened. _Thanks,_ he replied.

_We'll try to meet again tomorrow,_ Jamal wrote.

_Okay. _

_Bye, but ONLY for now,_ Gaby wrote. _Don't stop writing to us._

_I won't._

Rob waited for a few more minutes, but no more messages came.

He then had a thought. _Ghostwriter, do you get tired with sending so many messages long distance?_

Familiar colored sparks instantly flew around his message. They then sailed in an arc above him, spiraled in several quick loops nearby, and rapidly circled around the perimeter of the room. The ghost then came to a hovering stop beside him. Rob was comforted by the ghost's presence, like he had been during so many fearful nights of pain . . .

Ghostwriter then zoomed into his book on the bed. Several letters came flying out to create a message. _I'm fine. It doesn't tire me at all. _

_Really?_ Rob asked hopefully.

_Yes,_ Ghostwriter responded. _You don't have to worry about me._

Rob smiled some. _That's a relief._

_I am worried about you, though._

He then frowned. _You know what I was feeling back in Brooklyn, though, _he responded. _In my house._

Ghostwriter had indeed known that it was inside his house- and mostly after school- where he had been feeling the worst . . . He had told him that he had even figured out what each of the team member's house address was. Rob had been a bit shocked when the ghost had spelled out his address in front of him one night, asking him if it was his home.

_I remember, _Ghostwriter answered. The letters then flew out sort of slowly and then shrunk a bit, showing that the ghost was quite disheartened. _So much fear. So much pain._

Rob nodded. _That's why I left,_ he wrote.

_But where did the fear and pain come from?_ Ghostwriter asked. _From what?_ The letters were now pulsing slightly with concern.

Rob frowned, saddened again. Ghostwriter had asked him that question many times before. If he told Ghostwriter here and now, there was no way that he could tell him to _not_ relay it to the team, and he still doubted that anyone would really believe him. Maybe even the team would not. He did _not_ want to go back to his home . . . Did _not_; did _not_; did _not_ . . .

_I don't want to tell_, he wrote, cringing a bit as his dumb eyes started to water a bit yet again. _I'm sorry, Ghostwriter. I just don't want to. __I'm too scared. __Maybe I'm stupid for that, but I really just don't want to go back home._

_You don't want to go back to the fear and pain_, Ghostwriter answered understandingly.

Rob nodded. _Yes._

He closed his eyes briefly as he remembered his parents as they used to be. He did not know how in the world they could ever be back to what they had been.

Why in the world had they had to change? _Why?_

Rob laid his head down on the notebook. Suddenly, he saw a soft glow from behind his eyelids. Rob opened his eyes and looked up. A single sentence hung in the air, outlined by a light blue hue that pulsed ever so slightly.

_I am always your friend, _Ghostwriter had written.

The words faded, and the ghost appeared again, then rapidly circled him. It was Ghostwriter's "hug", as he called it. Even though he physically felt nothing, it was as if he could feel the comfort through the ghost's emotions. The same sort of thing had calmed him and helped him several times through many hard nights.

Rob closed his notebook and moved it slightly to the left. He then laid his head down again on his bed, comforted by the hug, and that the ghost stayed hovering nearby him. He was so glad that Ghostwriter was his friend.


End file.
